Joy Ever-Green
by VR Trakowski
Summary: A post-story for the film. Because I am a shameless romantic.


**This is based on the film; I have read the book, but it was before some of you were born.**

**For Cinco, because I promised I'd post it when I did the next chapter of Rise.**

* * *

He is tired.

It isn't the bone-deep weariness of age - he is only thirty-four, after all - but the hero business does take it out of a man. His shield _(azure, a unicorn argent passant)_ is heavy on his back, and his tunic needs laundering.

And since it is a cool, grey day on the early edge of fall, Lír lets his horse choose its speed along the country road. He reasons that they will reach a convenient inn before dusk; and if not, he's slept rough before _(a hero is strong)_.

It's times like these, in between quests, that his thoughts drift back to his youth, to the time when he'd lost father, home, and heart all in the same few short weeks; the time that had set him on this path, leaving the title of "Prince" as far behind as that crumbling, sea-swept castle.

Haggard hadn't been impossible to please, at least in Lír's memory. He'd simply been so far beyond pleasing that the five-year-old princeling, waving farewell to his nursemaid as she left the castle for the last time, had already known there was no point in trying.

It hadn't been a _bad_ childhood, he always told himself. Haggard had not been kind, but neither had he been cruel. The castle was lonely, but there was always enough to eat, if plain food, and his father had seen to it that he had tutors and instructors in the princely arts. Lír had learned his books, his tongues, his weapons well enough to please his teachers, even if no smile ever graced Haggard's face at his achievements.

But Haggard didn't rule his barren land - he had stewards enough for the few people who clung to the harsh soil - and Lír had learned little statecraft. So when castle and king both vanished into the waves, and Lír felt his life leave him and then rush back on the point of a horn, there was no reason to take his father's place.

Especially when _she_ was not there.

Lír knows that Schmendrick considered him a fool (Molly Grue clearly considered _every_ man a fool, he was nothing special in that line). But he understood, perhaps more clearly because more simply. The Lady Amalthea had been a seeming, a shadow of magic thrown over the unicorn; and she had nearly smothered beneath it.

He is no longer a prince, but he _is_ a hero, and heroes end suffering. They do not prolong it, even for the sake of their own hearts.

She had taught him that. For love of her seeming, Lír had _become_ a hero, and when her true self was revealed, he had found that his hero's heart still loved. How could it not? Every shadow held something of that which cast it.

With no home, and with his heart leaving him beggared, Lír had set out to use what he had to make his way.

It is a good life, he thinks, as the horse walks steadily on between fields ripening towards harvest. He has done good in the world; slaying monsters, rescuing maidens, defeating tyrants. And the more prosaic deeds of fighting fires or floods, digging through collapsed buildings, even - on occasion - nursing the sick _(a hero is kind)_.

Lír has seen Schmendrick and Molly twice, in the years that have passed, both times without planning it. And if envy burns him at the sight of their bickering love, he smothers it back.

Yet all the maidens, the matrons, the princesses - none have tempted him. His heart left his breast when life returned to it, and it is lost forever, in a far forest where no human is welcome.

It has kept him pure, all these years. Temptation withers away at the memory of her eyes, her hooves; the diamond whiteness of her coat _(a hero is steadfast)_.

He will never see her again, but she will _remember_ him, and that is enough.

Lír shakes off memory like water, and looks around - he never knows when the next quest will arrive.

And he frowns. Because where before there were clouds and ripe grain, there are now trees, and the road itself has vanished - his horse is picking its way along mossy breadths.

Lír twists in the saddle, one hand dropping automatically to his sword hilt, but there is no sign of open country behind him. I cannot have been lost in thought that long, he thinks, and yet here he is. The moss is so thick that the horse's steps are nearly soundless, and while birds chatter hidden in the leaves, there is no other sign of life.

Suspicious, Lír swings down from the saddle and takes the reins to lead his horse. He has seen illusions before, and they are almost always traps.

But his horse, a canny veteran of many a quest, shows no trace of uneasiness. And as they continue on, Lír finds his wariness turning to wonder. The woods are greener than they have any right to be on the cusp of autumn, and the air is sweet and almost warm, lacking the crisp note of oncoming winter.

So when the trees open up to a clearing, and something diamond-white moves within, Lír is not entirely surprised.

It is strange, to feel his heart leap in his breast as if it had never left; strange, and sweet, and painful. Light pours over the unicorn as if she is the only reason for the sun's existence, and Lír does not remember letting go the reins or falling to his knees. It is only looking up to see her as she paces forward that tells him he is no longer standing.

"Lír." Her voice is richer than Lady Amalthea's, more vibrant. Her violet gaze holds his in a grip stronger than ogres or giants or iron.

_My lady_. His lips move over the words, but no sound comes forth; his throat is too dry. The title is not right, he knows that, but he has no name to call her by any longer.

Her muzzle touches his cheek, soft as a wisp of silk, and his eyes brim over. He has shed tears before, over the bodies of those he could not save _(a hero is not afraid to weep)_, but that was only sorrow. This is something more.

There are no tears in her eyes, but something aches there, the same pain that sits in his chest. Lír lifts a trembling hand; her skin is impossibly fine, no more like horsehide than his own.

She breathes out and the hairs rise on his neck. "You have come," she says. "I did not think I would see you again."

Lír manages to swallow. "If I had known you desired me here, no barrier could have kept me away."

His own voice is hoarse and uneven, and he winces; next to her grace and beauty he is a coarse, stiff-jointed puppet, scarred from battle and filthy with travel. But when he looks into her eyes, all he can see is the forest around him, and his disgust melts away.

She whuffs, the lift of her head drawing him to his feet. Without knowing quite how, Lír finds himself pacing next to her, through lush shin-high grass and a wealth of meadow flowers. When he looks back, his horse has its own head down and is pulling up that grass as if it is the finest thing it has ever tasted; which, Lír thinks, might actually be true.

"I do not know what to say to you," Lír says at last. "I do not even know why I am here."

Light sparkles on the unicorn's horn as she walks. "You are here because you should be," she replies. "Humans seek to mold the world to their whims; creatures of magic know that things happen as they must."

"Did it happen as it must when I learned to love you?" The bitterness of the words surprises him. All the years of his devotion seem suddenly hollow.

Her skin ripples in an uneasy shrug. "Unicorns do not know love," she said. "Not as humans do. I cannot answer you."

Lír halts, and she turns to look at him, and the emptiness retreats. "My lady, I have spent the years being a hero in your honor. That is all I know how to do. But bid me stay, and I will remain at your side, for all my little life."

He lifts a hand, and does not quite dare to touch the pure arch of her neck; but the strands of her mane tickle his palm as if the breeze that combs through them blew just for that reason. "Though my heart aches with loving you, it is not a pain I would forgo."

_(A hero always speaks the truth.)_

She whickers quietly. "I do not want you to leave. Of all the unicorns in the world, only I know what it is to love, and to regret. I do not wish to regret any longer."

Her neck is against his hand without Lír moving. He shivers, and bows his head. "I am yours to command."

"You have given me your heart already." Her voice is softer, but no less rich. "Will you give me everything?"

He wants to kneel again, but his knees remain steady. "It is already yours."

The light in her eyes fills his gaze. Her horn swings down, and with steady fingers Lír opens his shirt _(a hero is brave)_. The point rests over his heart, and he breathes out.

* * *

In a hidden glade, in a forest that knows no frost, a saddle and bridle lie moldering next to a rusting sword. The wooden shield, whose arms have flaked away, is warped with age.

And through the trees, across the meadow, two unicorns gallop, perfect and without regret.


End file.
